


till i evaporated

by laratoncita



Series: je ne sais quoi (how you say, "voulez vous?") [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Clubbing, F/M, Hotel Sex, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 11:40:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9818861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laratoncita/pseuds/laratoncita
Summary: did you call me from a seance?Kent doesn't do hook-ups.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I love faux-deep Kent. He's half Mexican in this, also. Title/summary from Frank Ocean's _Nights_.

"Let's order room-service," she says, and Kent wonders if she knows who he is.

Las Vegas has plenty of hotels that he's never been to. He's got a penthouse and a cat; he has little reason to go out unless it's a birthday or a win, and even then he'll take the obligatory shot and drink a beer or two, max. He's nothing if not vigilant, and that includes keeping his rookies from doing something Deadspin worthy or dying of alcohol poisoning. He's been told he's too responsible of a captain, mirroring the best in the league, but he wants best for himself and best for the people he loves. He always has. He still does.

Tonight, though. Tonight is a different story. The Aces have just clinched and the team is buzzing with the remnants of game-day adrenaline. Kent had been high on it, a drink or two having little to no impact on his state-of-mind. He kept thinking of blue eyes and blue uniforms but he's been better about shoving it aside. This win means it's no better than his best days, no worse than his worst days. It feels like a promise of sort.

A pretty girl with long, dark hair had sent him enough fluttery glances to convince him that sending a trio of mojitos her way was a good idea. Her friends - both taller than her, one with kinky curls and huge, dark eyes, the other with a spray of freckles and a knowing smile - had toasted to him, and he'd watch the girl mouth a _thank you_ his way, winking in a way that somehow came across as attractive. Kent can't actually wink; he appreciates the skill in a partner.

Their positive reaction was enough to get him off his seat and away from the team, Witte giving a wolf-whistle as he made his way to the bar. The guys were just as victorious as he was, flirting with women here and there or simply downing as many mixed drinks as they could handle.

Her friends slipped onto the dance floor as he approached, and when he finally got to her he was distracted by the glitter highlighting her smooth brown skin. Her eyes were brown too, like copper. She'd smiled, a crooked, cocky thing, and he ordered two shots of tequila, seemingly without thinking about it.

"The drink of my people," she had said, lifting the glass to her mouth, pursed and lovely. Kent had the urge to bite.

"Really?" he'd asked, "mine too. I mean. Half of my people."

She'd laughed. "Same. The rest like sake." And she'd swallowed without flinching, sucked on a lime wedge while he watched.

Now she's sitting up in her hotel room, profile outlined by the panoramic view the window offers. He should ask what she's doing in Vegas, or where her friends went. He finds himself tracing the tattoos down her back instead, trying to remember the name for it.

"Irezumi," he says out loud, and she twists, the woman on her back dancing.

"You're right," she says, and when she smiles this time it's genuine. "You're distracted."

He flushes. He's had a good time, really. His thoughts hadn't strayed once.

"I'm hungry," he lies, and she laughs, unoffended.

"Mozzarella sticks sound divine," she drawls, "something greasy. Chicken wings."

His stomach growls. "God," he says, unthinking, "wings sound amazing."

"Hand me the phone," she demands, "I'm ordering us food."

"I can pay," he says immediately, and she arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

"You realize this is the penthouse suite, right?" she says, "Like. I can pay for food."

"I want to buy you food," he says, leaving the _as a thank you_ unsaid, "even if it's just junk food that'll ruin my diet."

He blushes as she looks him up and down, completely naked and barely covered by the white sheet she's mostly monopolized, the fabric loosely pressed against her chest. The tattoo over her solar plexus is completely shielded from view. He wants to ask to lick it.

"You a gym junkie?" she says, and he makes a face.

"Not quite."

"Okay," she says, voice dropping in a way that lets him know she knows he's full of shit. He tries smirking at her, but the effect isn't as strong as he'd like based off her nonplussed expression.

"You're very pretty," he says instead, completely honest and with nothing else to say. She finally cracks a grin.

"Thanks," she says, "I get it from my mama. She's the girl on my back, by the way."

The woman there has a knife between her teeth and hair covering her naked form. Kent is mostly thinking about how he'd apparently had a full view of mother and daughter twenty minutes beforehand. His face feels warm.

"That's. A lot," he says. She laughs.

"Where you from?" she asks, dialing the number for room service.

"New York," he says, instead of lying, and she nods before placing their order.

The food takes long enough for Kent to go down on her, realizing belatedly that neither of them got the other's name as she clenches around his fingers.

"God," she gasps, "let me ride you," and manages to finish at the exact moment the food arrives.

"Got it," Kent says, since she's loose-limbed next to him, head turned towards the window. Her hair, silky smooth and straight, is a messy halo around her. He's pretty sure he'll find strands of it on his clothes when he leaves.

She hums, turning onto her side in what Kent hopes is an effort to get up.

He ducks into the bathroom quickly to wrap a towel around his waist, forgetting for a moment who he is until he opens the door. The delivery guy's eyes go big a split second after they make eye contact, and Kent feels the buzz of a good day hemorrhage right out of him.

"G-good evening, sir," the kid says, and Kent carefully schools his face into a neutral expression. He steps to the side.

"Come in," he says, voice monotonous but calm, like any average post-loss interview, and the guy swallows, like he's uncomfortable too.

"Right there is fine," comes the girl's voice, clear and relaxed. Kent steps back into her line of site and sees she's in a robe, a flash of black signaling she's pulled her underwear back on at the very least. The guy pushes the cart a little further into the room, nearer to the bed, before stepping back and shuffling from foot to foot nervously.

Kent signs the receipt quickly, the hotel employee still looking at him, shell-shocked, while his guest (or, maybe he's the guest here?) starts rearranging the food however she sees fit. A waft of garlic makes his stomach rumble, eager for shrimp and calamari and whatever else she must have ordered.

"Have a nice night," the kid says, voice lilting too high, and ducks out of the room as quickly as he can without running. When he looks over at this bedmate both her eyebrows are raised.

"Weird," she says, and pops a tentacle in her mouth. It crunches, her lips shiny with oil. "Thish is sho _good_."

They gorge on it, mouths tasting like salt when they lean in to kiss between bites. A part of Kent wants to fall in love then and there. Wants to ask what she's from, where she lives, can he see her again? She has an orbital piercing, the hoop rose-gold and glinting perfectly off her skin.

"What's your name?" he says finally, as she uses a spoon to break open what looks like a fancier version of a molten lava cake. It's covered in matcha.

She looks at him, looks at the chocolate on her spoon, looks at him again. She takes the bite, instead, and he grins, a little enamored, as she holds a finger up and continues chewing.

When she swallows, she has the most satisfied expression that Kent's ever seen.

"Elisa," she says, "and I can't believe we didn't tell each other our names earlier. Yikes."

She takes another bite, and asks through a full mouth, "What's yours?"

Kent could lie. Kent probably isn't going to see this girl ever again, after all, and it's not like he's good at relationships or things that could pass as relationships, if you squinted and tilted your head and completely inverted the picture first.

They probably won't even have to play each other, he thinks, unless both teams somehow make it to the Finals.

Kent really wants to make it to the Finals.

"Kent," he says, and then, because he has no impulse control, "Kent Parson."

She tilts her head, eyebrows furrowing. "That sounds so familiar," she says, and her eyes narrow, like she can recognize him if she just closes her eyes a bit.

"Do you have a sister in gymnastics?" she asks, finally, "Or some other Olympic sport?"

His brain short-circuits. So close, yet so very, very far.

"No," he says slowly, then, "gymnastics?" He doesn't want to lie.

"I was a gymnast for a while," she says, "this was the first year I gave it up, actually. Gotta get that degree, you know."

"Wow," he says, and is fearful of asking her age or of somehow learning it. Maybe she's twenty-two? Hopefully? "Where do you go to school?"

She huffs a breath, laughing a little bit. "God," she says, "you sound like my dad's friends."

"Sorry?"

She flops a hand at him. "I'm at UCLA. I had a long weekend though and flights were cheap."

"Cool. Uh." He scratches his jaw, still smooth for the time being. "What do you study?"

"Sociology," she says, "I'm thinking of adding philosophy, too, but we'll see."

"I've never gotten philosophy," Kent says, because it's true and because he wants to listen to her voice. It's good, sultry but not excessive, low and full-bodied and somehow just _pleasing_.

"It's amazing!" she says, perking up. The rob slips down her shoulder, exposing a bit of the tattoo of a bird that curls at the low point of her ribs. The wings seem to cradle her breasts, and Kent remembers the taste of the skin there, like sweat and body lotion. "It's like…what's actually real? What makes things recognizable? What does beauty mean, or are there many meanings? It's super trippy. I love it."

Kent blinks. They sound like questions he's asked himself. He doesn't want to spiral into a pit of despair over what actually matters, though, as familiar as the feeling is. "Sounds like a lot. I always wanted to take a college class or two but…"

Hockey doesn't leave much free-time, he could tell her. Hockey's his life, more like it. But she didn't actually recognize him, even if he seemed familiar in some way that did or didn't matter.

"No time for university, huh?" she says, sympathetic. "It's expensive, so I mean, if you don't need it? Don't bother. Which isn't to say _that's_ okay, but." She shrugs. Takes a sip of water. She watches him carefully, and he feels more exposed now, in his underwear with this pretty girl, than he did when they were naked but still making smart choices about sexual health.

"What's it say about love?" he asks, and she looks at him, confused and a little surprised.

"Love? Like, philosophers? What do philosophers say about love?"

"Yeah," he says, heartbeat in his throat. "Is love real?"

She puts her drink down, gathering up her robe so it wraps around her more securely. He feels the loss of her skin deeply.

"Of course love is real," Elisa says, and he seems something like loss reflected on her face, a loss he can't even imagine. "But. I mean, there's different kinds, if you're looking at classic understandings of it." She shrugs, mouth pursed. Kent wants to reach over and smooth the wrinkle between her eyebrows, regretful. He was being selfish when he asked that question. He knows that.

"I've only taken two classes on philosophy, man," she says, and smiles. He touches her face then, gently, with the hand that isn't currently cradling a chicken bone. She leans into the touch, eyelashes fluttering like they had at the club. "I'm not an expert."

"I'm sure you will be," he says.

She laughs. Shakes her hair out. Moves all their dirty dishes back to the rolling cart they'd been brought in on. She hands him a napkin.

"Love is real," she says to him, slipping the robe off. He watches her pull a tank top out of one of the drawers, all her tattoos hidden for real, this time. She climbs into bed, burrowing under the covers. She watches him watch her.

"Are you spending the night?" she asks. He looks out the window, at how the sky is already starting to lighten. His next game is in two nights, and it's a home game. Home isn't too far from this hotel room.

"I shouldn't," he says, as he gets up to turn off the light. She wriggles against him as soon as he's under the covers. Her hands are warm against his skin.

"You seem _so_ familiar," she whispers, breath fanning over his neck, "it's bothering me."

"Maybe we met in a past life," he says, and she pinches him.

"I'm Buddhist, asshole," she says, and tilts his head to better kiss him goodnight. "You should tell me what you were out celebrating when we wake up."

His hand splays over her lower back, and he basks in the feeling of her chest expanding against his own. Her knees fit perfectly between his.

"Yeah," he says, "I will." And when he closes his eyes, he doesn't see blue.

.

.

.


End file.
